


amidst a crashing world

by WinnieThePooh89



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Child Abuse, Don't worry, F/M, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Supernatural Elements, Violence, nothing too major
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:01:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24872722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinnieThePooh89/pseuds/WinnieThePooh89
Summary: Cursedcurs·edwhen a person is born with supernatural abilities.By 1899, the age of the outlaws and gunslingers was at an end.America was becoming a land of laws…Even the west had mostly been tamed.A few gangs still roamed but they were being hunted down and destroyed.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde, Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith, Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan
Comments: 8
Kudos: 34





	1. Prologue

The streets of Britain are quiet, all the occupants had taken refuge in their homes as the rain  poured over the city.

A young woman, carrying nothing but the clothes on her back, peeks through the alley. A fire  burns inside her, she contains it for the time being. She seems to have lost the law, but she can’t risk drawing more attention to herself.

_ “There it is! I found the beast!” _

Their shouts echo in her ears, and she feels an all-consuming fear take hold.

She had been roughly awoken, not mere hours ago, to the law pounding on her door. She could hear maybe 30 men surrounding her little cottage, all armed. 

She had no other choice. 

_ “Catch it before it gets away!” _

The empty docks call to her. Her freedom is almost in arms reach. Checking her surroundings once more, she makes a break for the docks, her beat-up shoes splashing mud over her ripped nightgown and robe. The moment her feet hit the wooden ground she huffed out a smokey breath and took off into the night sky. 

* * *

The United States was her fresh start.  _ “A land of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” _ . The morning air was crisp, and the view of the sun rising above mountains and shining down on the expansive valleys felt like being reborn. A brand new day awaits. 

A breath of fresh air.

There were no lawmen hunting down the Cursed, only the occasional block-headed man throwing insults at those who are different. There were no daily hangings of those having been falsely accused just because they weren't human. 

But Beatrice held onto her caution. 

Beatrice found a small and quaint town called Pembina in the Northern states. She had explored the limited shops and hotels, eyed the modest homes on the outskirts of town, and peeked her head inside the variety of saloons. 

It seems America wasn’t built only on the idea of freedom. 

The people in the town weren’t too civilized; there was a bar fight every few days. Beatrice had the misfortune of sticking around during a fight. 

Patrons throw just as many bottles as they do punches. People shout curses and scream in anger as they tackle an unknowing victim through a window or over the bar. Tables were flipped, chairs were thrown, bottles and bones were broken. 

It was madness. 

All because one drunken bastard stumbled into another. 

The fight was quick but messy. The working girls and more timid patrons stood on the outskirts, watching as a broad man, guns adorning his hips, finished the fight by choking a man until he went unconscious.

The man rises to his feet, rolling back his shoulders. Beatrice watches as he holds a hand to his side, blood sneaking through his fingers. His green eyes flicker across the other men lying on the floor. Whether or not they remain breathing is not something Beatrice can ultimately figure out. 

Beatrice watches as the man stumbles out of the saloon, favoring his left leg and still holding his side.

Beatrice follows after the man.

* * *

His name is Lyle Morgan. 

Lyle claimed that he was a carpenter, and how he owns a little cottage outside of town. He had moved in a little over a month ago, looking for work seeing how he got laid off. Lyle never spoke sourly about the Cursed, but Beatrice was never brave enough to tell him. Past experiences made her lose faith in being accepted.

Maybe another day she will tell him.

Maybe when they know each other better.

Beatrice was enraptured by his charming personality and charisma, she didn’t even hesitate before she told him about her interest in him. Her confession was met with much enthusiasm and endearments. 

They were very sweet on one another, even though they were only courting for such a short time. Beatrice had never felt so loved in her life. Lyle had completed her and she was the happiest she can ever remember being. Her heart felt full and ready to burst when thinking about the man she loves.

So when they got married not even a year later, Beatrice felt she was flying. Lyle was a sweet man with such passion for what he did. He would arrive at their cottage in the evening and tell her about his day, and Beatrice would follow his example.

However, Beatrice never noticed the signs hanging in the town, seeing as she never left their home. And why would she? She had everything she needed and more. She was happily married and completely content to tend to their home.

She didn’t notice how Lyle became more irrational and angry. Beatrice had important things to worry about now; she was pregnant! She was going to have a family with the man of her dreams.

Beatrice didn’t notice the bounty hunters that were trying to find Lyle. She had a newborn to take care of. A bouncing baby boy.

His name is Arthur.

Arthur Morgan.

He is the sweetest little baby Beatrice had ever laid her eyes on. She was thrilled when she saw that Arthur had his father’s nose and mouth, but she was even more thrilled when she saw that her baby had her eyes. They were the brightest blue she had ever seen, and they sometimes looked green when outside.

So when two bounty hunters came to their humble cottage, threatening her dear baby boy and demanding she give up Lyle, Beatrice had no choice but to spread her wings and save her son. 

She didn’t have a choice. She may have exposed herself, but her baby boy was only three years old!

Lyle had rushed outside at the commotion, and when he saw Beatrice’s true form, anger took forth. 

When Beatrice put both of her feet on solid ground again, she hadn’t expected her loving husband to knock her over the head. Beatrice cried out, collapsing to the ground. She stares up at her husband, a gun aimed at her head.

Her voice trembles, her stomach turns into a knot. However, she can’t find it in herself to regret what she did. She will protect her baby boy to her last breath.

“L-Lyle…” Beatrice stammers. “What are you doing?”

A sneer crosses his face, disgust leaking through his every pore that Beatrice can almost taste it. “I shoulda known you was one of those… things. A monster!” 

Beatrice feels the acceptance course through her body, knowing what her fate will be. 

“Momma!” Her boy cries out, running to her. His bright blue eyes are terrified as he witnesses his mother held to the ground with a gun to her head.

“My sweet boy. It’ll be alright. I promise that I will always be with you.” She risks a glance up to her husband and sees his hateful eyes bore into her. But he doesn’t stop her when she holds out her arms and Arthur runs to her, seeking comfort.

“I love you so much, sweetheart. Now be brave and go inside, okay? Go hide under your bed and start counting. It’ll be okay,” she whispers in his ear. Arthur, tears streaming down his young face, nods and slowly pulls away from the embrace. 

Arthur looks at his father, but he won’t meet his eyes, and he runs into the house, shutting the door slowly behind him. Beatrice takes a deep breath and drags her eyes back up to Lyle, her fate sealed. 

“I always knew there was somethin’ wrong about ya... “ Lyle drawls, anger shining something fierce in his eyes. “You’re a monster. A freak. You shoulda died along with the others.”

Beatrice knows she can’t plead for her life, so she will do the next best thing. “Please. Please, take care of my boy. He is such an innocent soul. Please, don’t hurt him.”

Lyle’s hand tightens it’s hold on his gun. “Goodbye, monster.”

* * *

Three-year-old Arthur Morgan trembles under his bed, tears stream down his face. A loud  _ Bang  _ sounds from outside and Arthur chokes back a sob.

It’s a quiet night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy, y'all! I am very excited to be writing a RDR2 story! I absolutely love this game and I have watched it about 3-4 times already.
> 
> I just want to thank [eaglepatronus](https://eaglepatronus.tumblr.com/) and [outlaw-unicorn](https://outlaw-unicorn.tumblr.com/). They came up with an amazing idea and they have allowed me to write a whole story about it. 
> 
> I also want to thank [kitsuonyo](https://kitsuonyo.tumblr.com/) for beta reading this story for me!
> 
> * * *
> 
> Also, if anyone has any tips about doing notes and warnings, I will always appreciate any advice y'all may have. :)


	2. just an accident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There is no such thing as accident, it is only fate misnamed."  
> -Napoleon Bonaparte

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Violence, child abuse, child neglect

“You rotten half-breed cursed freak!” Lyle chucks his beer bottle, hitting his intended target. Arthur falls to the ground, a hand holding his bleeding chin. He cowers away from his father’s furious and rotten eyes as he towers over the cowering boy. 

“Papa… I-i didn’t-” the young boy starts, but is cut off to a violent kick to his stomach. Arthur cries out, curling up on the molded wooden floor.“‘You didn’t’ what? You have meant everything you have ever done, you bastard of a son! You’ve ruined us! You’ve gone and told someone what you are! A monster!” Lyle screams, an unimaginable fury boiling deep inside him, spewing out from every pore.

Arthur chokes back a cry. He didn’t think he had done anything wrong. He was just playing! Ain’t nothing wrong with playing around.

“You have no idea everything that I've done for you! I work day and night just to put food on the table for your ungrateful ass! I should just throw you out on the street.”

Arthur flinches and stares at the ground. He didn’t mean to do any harm. Sammy just wanted to see what Arthur could do. He just hadn’t expected his father to barge out of the house and start screaming at the both of them. 

He was lonely, that’s all. None of the other boys want to play with Arthur, always saying how he is too weird and that he’s too different. Don’t go near that Morgan boy because he’s a demon. 

Arthur sneaks a glance up at his father, still throwing insults at the boy.

Maybe those people aren’t all that wrong.

* * *

For as long as Arthur can remember, his father was a mean ol’ bastard. The bottle had a mean hold on him, but his sour attitude and angry personality had hardly anything to do with the bottle. Sure, more often than not, his father would stumble through the front door in the middle of the night, completely wasted, but even when sober, Arthur does his utmost to avoid his father.

As far back as Arthur can recall, it’s been him and his father. Arthur’s mother died when he was real young, and his father refuses to talk about her. The one time Arthur asked about his mother, he wasn’t able to recall what day it was. And he had fresh new bruises to go along with the green and yellow ones. And from what Arthur understands, it was his mother that passed the Cursed gene to him. But again, his father isn’t too willing to share any of the information he may or may not have.

His father doesn’t only hate Arthur for existing, he also hates his son just for what he is. Now, Arthur knew what he was the entire time. Even though Arthur found joy with the wind blowing through his hair and being able to stretch his wings, his father made it very clear that Arthur is a monster, and that no one will ever accept him. And those words eventually stuck in the child’s mind. He’s too afraid to show what he is, seeing as his father made it very clear what would happen if he ever caught him. 

Arthur wondered what it would be like if he would run. Escape. Leave this place and everything behind. But at the age of 12, he wouldn’t last half a day out on his own. Arthur doesn’t have half a brain to survive out in the wild, much less survive at his own home.

Arthur has tried his hand at hunting, but all he caught was rabbit shit. He had set out a little trap at the edge of the woods, hoping to catch something, anything. Just about anything would do and surely his father would be proud. 

But no, the rabbit was far smarter than a young Arthur and had evaded getting caught. And instead, Arthur was the one that got caught by his father and was punished for his stupidity. Arthur felt too discouraged to try hunting ever again. Not with his father’s selective watchful eye on him. That man could sniff out any sort of ‘dangerous’ or ‘idiotic’ activity Arthur could come up with.

But with time came frustration. And with frustration comes unintentional outbursts.

* * *

Arthur curls up on the ground, the harsh cold biting at his exposed skin. The chains on his feet rattle as the young boy shivers, desperately trying to keep any remaining body heat he may still have. He can’t remember how long it’s been since he got thrown down in the cellar. 

A day?

Weeks?

A month?

No. It can’t have been that long. Surely his father wouldn’t just forget about him as he goes about his outlaw life? Surely he wouldn’t forget about his only child that he locked in the cellar over an accident?

Surely…

Who is he kidding…

His father must have been ecstatic over finally being able to lock his only child away and out of his sight for as long as he pleases. For the first time in years, Arthur wishes his father not to get shot over some dumb mistake, just so Arthur knows he won’t be forgotten and left to rot in the dark and moldy cellar. 

Arthur sighs, his body sagging in defeat. His empty stomach growls, as he hasn’t been fed in however long he has been chained up. 

It seems kinda silly now. Thinking back on it all. He was just messing around in the field in the back. Arthur was more than positive that his father would be out all night, robbing some poor fool blind, and would be drinking in celebration until the sun came up. But unsurprisingly, Arthur was proven wrong when his father came barging out the front door, insults already spilling from his rotten mouth. And before Arthur could process half of what was happening, he was thrown down into the cellar, chained up to the wall like some no good, cold-blooded killer.

Like his father.

Well, ain’t that a nice thought…

* * *

“Hosea, are you sure we’re going the right way? I thought you said we were heading west, not east…” an older man questions, shifting on his horse. 

Hosea scoffs, continuing down the road. “Oh, where is all that talk about faith now, Dutch?” Hosea teases, glancing back at his partner. “I just heard of this little cottage on the outskirts of town. They have gold stashed away in the floorboards. And the owner of the house? A drunken bastard.”

Dutch snorts, urging his horse to catch up to the older man. “Of course, Hosea. How could I be so foolish as to place any sort of doubt in such an intelligent man such as yourself?”

Hosea laughs and glances over to Dutch. “You’d be a fool to doubt me. Now, let's get going. I don’t want to be riding all night. You know how much long rides make my back ache.”

They continue in silence, and Hosea watches as nature passes them by. He watches a deer and its foal prancing along the lush green grass and blooming flowers, the trees swaying in the mid-summer breeze, lone riders idly riding through the fields. Hosea takes in a deep breath, the crisp air filling his lungs. 

Oh, how he loves the open fields.

Thinking back to this morning, when Hosea told his ‘plan’ to Dutch over a cup of coffee, Hosea starts to recognize their surroundings.

They’re getting close. Just a little while longer and their life will change forever. 

Hosea normally would feel bad lying to Dutch - even though the whole point of him being a con man is to lie - but this mission that they are going on is far too important to pass up. After seeing something so horrible and sickening as he did, Hosea can't just ignore it. He isn’t that heartless.

Finally, they reach a clearing and small lone house lays before them. Dutch throws Hosea a confused look, but Hosea just gives him a reassuring nod in return.

Reaching the house feels like putting together pieces of an uncompleted puzzle, only seconds away from being finished. And how Hosea wishes to hurry this along. They don’t have much time.

Dutch gestures to Hosea with a grin. “After you, old man.” Hosea snorts and saunters up to the house. He knocks twice and waits for the man to open the door. And when he does, Hosea feels anger stir up inside him. But after years of practice, Hosea conceals his true emotions and instead goes along with stringing his victims along. 

“Ah, excuse me, kind man,” Hosea starts, shaping his expression to resemble someone who is truly desperate. “We are but two country folk in need of food. See, we was robbed this morning at our camp, and we have no money. If you could be so kind as to help us out?” Hosea finishes, watching as the man’s face morphs into something truly unimpressed.

The man crosses his arms and glares harshly at the two men. “I don’t appreciate y’all coming to me, beggin' for food. I don’t do no charity. Now get lost!” And with that, the man slams the door shut.

Just as predicted. 

“So,” Dutch hums, giving Hosea a look, “what’s your plan now then?” Despite his words, Hosea spots a shine of mischief in Dutch’s eyes.

Hosea grins, hands grasping his guns. “Why, we force our way in, my friend.”

Hosea kicks open the door, and the man on the other side shouts in alarm. Before the man can draw his guns, Dutch shoots the man’s hand, and the man yells in pain. He stumbles backward, grasping his bleeding hand. 

The anger fills Hosea yet again, and this time he doesn’t push it back down. Hosea shoves the man back into the wall, fists clenching his lapels. Hosea glares at the fearful man, wanting to just shoot the bastard then and there. But he wasn’t shown where to go next, so the bastard lives. For now. “Where’s the boy?” Hosea demands, tightening his hold on the man. The man stares at Hosea, disgust filling his eyes.

“The boy?” the man asks incredulously. “That’s what you’re after? Well, I can tell you, folks, that boy is the worst sack a shit this world here has ever seen. He is a good for nothing monster! I had to keep him locked in the cellar to keep him from exposin’ who we are! That little bastard is too much of a nuisance-”

A shot rings out and the man’s eyes go blank. Blood starts pouring from the side of his head, and Hosea lets the man drop to the floor. The older man looks to his side, spotting Dutch holding his gun level to where the man once stood, anger shining in his eyes.

“I’ve heard enough.” He growls, holstering his gun. He turns his gaze to Hosea, his eyes softening. “You could’ve just told me what this was about. No need to keep it secret. I trust you no matter what, Hosea.”

Hosea gives a relieved smile, patting Dutch’s shoulder. “I know. Now let’s go get that boy.”Hosea and Dutch locate the cellar with ease, and they walk down the stairs, guided by Dutch’s match. The cellar smells of mold and the cold is frigid. 

“Hello? Can you hear me?” Hosea calls out, hoping that they aren’t too late.

A chain rattles and a soft sort of growl is heard in the darkness. Dutch shines the match towards the noise.

There he is.

The boy.

The two men take a few slow steps towards the scared boy. God, Hosea thinks, he can’t be much older than 14. He’s so skinny and dirty. How could someone do this to a child?

Hosea squats down to the boy’s level, holding his hands out as a sign of peace. He gives a small smile, hoping to calm the boy. “Hey, my name is Hosea. And this scary-looking fellow behind me is my friend Dutch. Now, we came to help you.”

The boy watches Hosea, his blues eyes sharp. His eyes look over the two men standing before him and sags. He gives a small nod. Hosea sighs in relief and reaches for his lockpick. He works on the chains on the boy’s feet while Dutch works on his hands. 

They make quick work and they guide the child up the stairs. The boy stops in his tracks, however, when they reach the main room.

Shit, Hosea thinks. They completely forgot about the boy’s father.

“Son,” Dutch starts, going to rest a hand on the boy’s shoulder, but without looking back, the boy flinches away from the touch. Dutch withdraws his hand and instead watches the boy stare at his dead father.

“Good,” the boy says after a moment of silence. “He was a right bastard anyway.” He walks forward, and Hosea almost reaches out to stop him, but he doesn’t. Instead, he watches as the boy picks up the fallen hat his father was holding before he was killed and places the too-big hat on his head. The rim falls over his eyes, and the boy pushes it back with little success. 

Hosea walks towards the door, letting Dutch and the boy leave before following.“Is there anywhere for you to go?” Dutch asks, putting his rifle back on his saddle. The boy shakes his head, avoiding eye contact.

Hosea shares a look with Dutch, a silent conversation having played out. Hosea turns to his horse and climbs on, Dutch following suite with his horse. The boy stares at Hosea, confused yet hesitant.

Hosea holds out his hand, waiting for the boy to come to him. “If you’d like, you can ride with us for a while. It isn’t the most fabulous of lifestyle, but it must be better than what you have just experienced.”

The boy seems to consider this, and walks towards Hosea and grabs his hand. The older man lifts the boy up and onto his horse, placing him in front. Hosea looks to Dutch and he nods. They take off, leaving the sorry excuse of a house behind.

“So, what’s your name kid?” Dutch asks, not looking back at them.

“Morgan. Arthur Morgan.”


End file.
